


Bishop (Part Two)

by TelWoman



Series: Bishop von dem Eberbach - alt universe [2]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26438833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: We first met Bishop von dem Eberbach when an English artist named Dorian Red was commissioned to make a statue of St Michael the Archangel for his Cathedral. That did not go particularly well. Five years on, the Bishop discovers he has a new problem with the Cathedral's artworks.
Series: Bishop von dem Eberbach - alt universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921888
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Bishop (Part Two)

> _'It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.'_  
>  – Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely  
> 

A tourist coach pulled up in the Cathedral forecourt, and thirty colourfully-dressed visitors tumbled out, chatting in a variety of languages. Standing in the shade of a tree near the Cathedral’s western door, Bishop von dem Eberbach watched silently as a tour guide led the visitors inside to view the artworks and stained glass within. 

Although the Bishop took very little interest in art himself, in the last few years members of his congregation and benefactors from the town had been generous with their donations of paintings, sculptures, and other ornamental work to beautify the Cathedral. Those who liked such things were excited by the Cathedral’s growing reputation as a centre for fine ecclesiastical artworks. When tour operators began bringing groups of visitors to the Cathedral, the Bishop suspected that the enterprising Father Berthold had approached them first, but he had no objection because visitors often put cash into the donation box, and the tour companies paid a small fee for access. As long as Father Bertold managed it, and the Bishop didn’t have to be involved, he was happy.

The Bishop slipped into the Cathedral and made his way quietly along the north aisle. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass windows, pooling patches of colour on the stone floor. Passing the north transept, the Bishop glanced upward at the Cathedral’s newest installation – a tall lancet window that stretched the full height of the wall. The glass glowed in rich jewel colours, showing wreaths of palm and olive leaves, starry skies, and rank upon rank of angels with golden trumpets and silver-strung harps. 

A group of influential city philanthropists had commissioned the window the previous year, and its installation had been reported in glowing terms by the local press and international art magazines alike. Bishop von dem Eberbach had paid little attention to the project, other than to note that Father Berthold had taken particular care to liaise closely with the artist this time, and that the subject matter seemed uncontroversial.

Unlike that wretched statue that dominated the south transept.

The Bishop glared across the Cathedral at the tourist party, gathered around the statue of St Michael the Archangel. The tour guide was burbling enthusiastically, pointing up at the statue and inviting the visitors’ admiration. St Michael, six feet tall and stark naked except for a pair of sandals, his wings curving high above his head and his sword glinting in a shaft of sunlight, evoked “Ooohs” and “Aaahs” from the crowd.

 _Idiots! They should be disgusted. A naked man in the Cathedral – in full view of the congregation._ Bishop von dem Eberbach shook his head and quickened his steps, making for the sacristy door. 

.

.

.

The Bishop collected a boxful of items he’d left in the sacristy and carried them back to his office. As he passed Father Berthold’s office, he noticed that some sort of meeting seemed to be going on. Brother Gregor and Brother Zachary were sitting in there listening to Father Berthold, and the three of them were looking quite concerned about some matter or another.

Pushing the door closed behind him with his foot, the Bishop placed the box on top of a filing cabinet and sat down at his desk to go through his in-tray. He lit a cigarette to help him concentrate. Idly, he wondered what Father Berthold and the other two had been talking about. 

These days, a good number of Father Berthold’s duties related to the Cathedral’s art collection. Five years previously, the Bishop had selected Father Berthold almost at random from his pool of secretaries and administrative assistants to deal with that bequest from the Staebler family. The Staebler project had led to the installation of that outrageous naked archangel in the south transept. If he’d been managing the project himself, the Bishop thought, they’d have chosen a different statue – or at the very least, the archangel would have had some clothes on. But apart from that, Berthold had done a reasonably good job and had made some valuable connections. The Staebler family had been pleased with the statue, and the Bishop had to concede that St Michael the Archangel had become something of a tourist attraction. 

His in-tray forgotten, Bishop von dem Eberbach thought back to the day of the statue’s official unveiling in the Cathedral. 

To add insult to injury, he’d been obliged to meet the artist and—worse still—to act as his host at the celebration. Father Berthold had forewarned him that the statue was modelled on the artist’s own appearance, and the accuracy of the likeness was remarkable. Bishop von dem Eberbach had not enjoyed standing with the life-size bronze figure in all its naked glory on one side and the artist on the other, knowing that the artist must look exactly the same underneath his flamboyant clothes. 

The artist’s behaviour had been disgraceful, too, allowing the young women and some of the young men to flirt with him. He’d even fluttered his luxuriant eyelashes at the Bishop himself. Scandalous!

 _Still,_ thought the Bishop, _he probably can’t help being the way he is. He’s English, and he’s an artist. No wonder he’s a degenerate nuisance._

.

.

.

Through the closed door, Bishop von dem Eberbach heard footsteps as Brother Gregor and Brother Zachary came past the waiting area outside his office.

“You heard what Father Berthold told us,” Brother Gregor was saying. “The curator from the museum said there’s not much we can do about it. We can’t reverse the process – the surface has actually been worn smooth. Even if people stopped stroking it and the brightness faded, the patch would still show up.”

Bishop von dem Eberbach frowned. _What? What’s he talking about?_

“Has the Bishop noticed yet?” Brother Zachary’s voice was thin with worry. “I mean, he might not see the funny side of it. Tourists stroking a statue for good luck’s harmless enough, but he might not think so.”

_Stroking a statue for good luck? What?_

Then, the Bishop’s puzzlement gave way to cold horror. He’d seen a program on television earlier in the year about how tourists interact with the things they come to see. Kissing the Blarney Stone, for instance, hoping to gain the gift of eloquence. Or— stroking the testicles of the bronze Bull on Wall Street for good luck, or the breasts of Molly Malone in Dublin. The grinning buffoon presenting the program could hardly contain his glee, pointing out the bright shine Molly and the Bull had acquired on those parts of their anatomy.

Were visitors to the Cathedral stroking that blasted statue of St Michael for good luck?

And— dear god, _where_ were they stroking it?

An unwelcome picture floated into the Bishop’s mind of St Michael the Archangel, the well-endowed St Michael the Archangel, his penis shining as bright as twenty-four carat gold from the touch of many hands.

The Bishop reached for another cigarette and lit up, drawing soothing smoke down into his lungs. _Don’t jump to conclusions,_ he admonished himself. _It could be something harmless. It could be another statue entirely._

All the same, he thought he’d better go and see for himself.

.

.

.

Not wanting to be observed, Bishop von dem Eberbach waited until the Cathedral’s business had finished for the day. When late afternoon Confessions were over, and the six o’clock Mass for commuters had ended, and the Western Doors were closed for the night, the Bishop let himself in through the outside door to the sacristy.

He paused, listening. Satisfied that the Cathedral was empty, and he was alone, he turned on enough lights to see his way to the south transept.

The Bishop usually avoided going anywhere near the statue of St Michael, but tonight he had a mission to complete. He needed to know whether a statue in his Cathedral was being defaced by the sweaty hands of disrespectful tourists, and he needed to know how much of an embarrassment this defacement was going to be.

His footsteps echoed in the vast silence as he crossed the stone floor. When he reached the statue, he placed himself squarely in front of it, and turned all his attention to the part of the statue’s anatomy he would rather not acknowledge at all.

The twenty-four carat gleam that the Bishop was dreading did not materialise.

Bishop von dem Eberbach blinked. The Archangel Michael’s private parts remained the same rich, deep-bronze hue as the rest of his muscular body. With a faint sigh of relief, the Bishop straightened up. The worst hadn’t happened. 

_So what were those two idiots talking about?_

Slowly, he circled around the statue— and there was his answer. One of the Archangel’s handsome buttocks shone gloriously in the low light, buffed to brightness by the rubbing of countless hands.

The Bishop shook his head. He’d always thought that visitors coming to the Cathedral seeking artworks instead of God were a mixed blessing. Clearly, there were enough superstitious fools and unmannerly louts amongst them to bring about this result. And now that it was an established practice, there’d be no stopping it.

_If only I’d taken more interest in the Staebler project from the start. If only we’d chosen a different artist, not that conceited English fop. If only—._

The Bishop turned away from the offending statue and stomped back across the Cathedral toward the north transept. His steps took him past the more recent installation, the tall stained-glass window featuring angels and olive branches. He stopped and looked up. At least there was nothing here to offend the eye.

Starting at the top, where golden stars spun in a majestic spiral through ultramarine skies, the Bishop’s eye trailed downward, following the procession of angels—harmless, fully-clothed angels—past the fronds of palm and olive leaves, to the last angel in the line. And for the first time, the Bishop looked carefully at him. 

In spite of the long, curling golden hair, the angel was clearly male. His sapphire eyes regarded the Bishop with unnerving perception, and his smile was positively cunning. To his intense displeasure, Bishop von dem Eberbach noticed that the last angel looked exactly like the English artist who’d created the statue of St Michael.

Rage boiled up inside the Bishop. English fops! Naked archangels! Tourists fondling statues’ bronze buttocks! Stained-glass angels that reminded him of someone he’d much rather forget!

As though channeling his younger self from his years as a high-school soccer champion, the Bishop aimed a ferocious kick at the stained-glass window, shattering the smirking blond angel and the two or three others closest to him in the line.

Bishop von dem Eberbach stood panting, his fists clenched. 

_What now? How can I explain this?_

Well, perhaps it wouldn’t need to be explained. He’d leave it to Father Berthold to discover the damage and see about fixing it. And when the artist came to mend the window, perhaps he’d have a quiet word to her about the colour of the last angel’s eyes and hair.

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End file.
